


all of us, we're made for the fire

by ceserabeau



Series: into the fire [4]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Quarter Quell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vick curls closer. This is familiar: late nights around a table, elbow to elbow, sharing bowls of thin soup, Katniss and Gale hovering nearby. Vick seems so small tucked under your arm, so fragile. You know in your heart that he’s probably going to die here. </p><p>Prim and Vick in the arena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all of us, we're made for the fire

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Delta Rae's _Dance in the Graveyards_. Prim POV.

The arena is a monstrous thing, a damp jungle that pulsates around you. It’s filled with animal sounds, the buzz of insects, the squawking of birds, and you shiver despite the heat. You reach out for Vick’s hand, tuck it tight in yours.

“It’s going to be alright,” you say, mouth pressed closed to his ear. “We’re going to be fine.”

High above you, faces in the night sky. You count them slowly, one to nine. Only thirteen tributes left; only thirteen enemies hidden in the undergrowth.

Vick curls closer. This is familiar: late nights around a table, elbow to elbow, sharing bowls of thin soup, Katniss and Gale hovering nearby. Vick seems so small tucked under your arm, so fragile. You know in your heart that he’s probably going to die here.

In the distance: footsteps, the faint sound of voices. You pull Vick against you, snuggle back into the hollow of the tree you’ve tucked yourselves in. You try to breathe, but the air is damp and your lungs stick together; it feels like drowning.

Around you the jungle howls.

-

You come across a body. Vick spots it first; he clamps his hands over his mouth to hold back his scream. Propped up against the tree is a girl – or what’s left of her. Her body is ripped open, insides spilling across the ground; her face is a bloody mess.

“Mutts,” Vick whispers.

You’ve heard the stories, seen them on screen: mutations, monsters of the Capitol’s creation. Of course they’re in the arena with you; anything else would be too easy.

“It’s okay,” you say, pulling Vick tight against your body, like that will protect him. “Stay here,” and Vick nods his tiny head, crouches down behind a bush; he vanishes beneath the fronds.

You take careful steps towards the girl. The stink of rot in the damp air is overwhelming; it is the smell of death. You gag, but you remember the bright lights of the Capitol stage: _I hope I can make my sister proud_. You find the strength to crouch beside her.

Up close the blood is brighter, a brilliant crimson spreading out like a carpet. Her stomach is split apart; her mouth is torn open in the shape of a scream. You close your eyes to her dead stare and begin to search through her pockets.

A canteen, full. Three packets of rations, unopened. A spile; a flashlight. Medicine; rope; matches; crackers. The big prize is in her waistband: a wickedly sharp knife. You secret it away as the trees above your head begin to dance in the wind, the Capitol coming to take her.

It seems wrong to steal from the dead, but this is the world you live in: you have to do what’s necessary, what’s essential for survival.

These are the Hunger Games after all.

-

You know you’re nothing special. You have no particular strength or skill. You didn’t score well and the odds are not in your favour. You’re not a Career or a genius. You’re just a little girl from Twelve who forgets to tuck her shirt in.

But Katniss Everdeen is your sister: a Victor, a Capitol favourite. They love her, and by association they love you.

“That’s how you’re going to win,” Haymitch had said, pointing at you across the dinner table: “They’re going to shower you with gifts. They’re going to keep you alive.”

Two days in and you’re starting to get hungry. You can eat the salty nuts from the bushes; if you snap leaves from their stems you can drink the water there. It’s not enough, not if you want to survive much longer.  

That’s when the whistling starts, a shrill noise from somewhere up high, and a silver parachute glides down to meet you. You hope no one’s following its trail; then you’d really be in trouble.

Vick picks up the box with thin fingers, opens it up. Inside: six rolls of bread. Her tears into one with a hunger you feel echoed in your belly, a hunger you’ve known all your life. Under the rolls is a tiny note, in Katniss’ chicken-scratch hand: _hang in there, little duck_.

The only problem is, you’re not sure how much longer you can.  

-

Three days and three nights. You count the canons, the faces in the sky: the number climbs, ten, twelve, fifteen. Your chances of survival grow by the hour.

Vick smiles for the first time in days: “We could go home,” he whispers.

Oh home, it sounds so wonderful; what you wouldn’t give to breathe the mountain air, to feel the coal dust grinding beneath your boots. The rule is technically still in place: two victors from the same district may be crowned.

Hope blossoms in your chest, but when the Capitol’s seal lights up the night and the anthem echoes around the trees you know it means nothing.

There will only be one Victor.

-

Katniss taught you how to hunt once. She put a bow in your hand and an arrow in the sights, showed you how to pull it back and let loose. You took down a turkey, a squirrel too, before the sight of blood smeared across snow got too much.

There was a bow in the Cornucopia; put there for you, you think. But there were six Careers between you and it, so you ran the other way.

You regret it a little now, now that the bow is in hands of the girl from One, the one who attacked you during training. She’s holding it wrong; she’ll never make an accurate shot like that. But then she doesn’t need to, not when she’s this close.

“Run,” you scream; “Go, Vick, _run_!”

He disappears into the undergrowth as the first arrow cuts through the air. It thuds into the tree above your, and your body comes alive with fear. Ahead of you the girl draws again: it lands inches from your feet: she’s getting better.

When she reaches back for another arrow, you tackle her, take her down into the mud. It’s not your smartest move: hand-to-hand was your weakest area in training, but it’s her or you and survival has always been your strongest instinct. You are from Twelve after all.

She squirms under you, kicking up sludge in every direction. Her leg slips between yours and flips, lightening fast. The air explodes out of your lungs. But there’s no time to think, her hands wrapping around your neck, choking you, squeezing the life out of you.

“There’s no one to protect you now,” she hisses. There’s violence in her eyes, and bares her teeth, all animal instinct.

A calm washes over you. Your hands fall away from hers and you reach for the knife where it lies, caught against your body. The handle is solid in your hand, a sure weight, and it’s easier than you thought to raise it, slip it into her throat. Blood spurts, warm on your face. The light in the girl’s eyes flicker and die.

You remember a gold pin on your chest, a bird taking flight: _as long as you have this nothing bad will happen to you_ , Katniss had said.

-

The arena is a maze. Every tree is the same, every leaf, every clearing. The darkness is terrifying; it feels alive, a living, breathing creature that howls and wails around you.

Somewhere out there is Vick: tiny little Vick, alone, unarmed. You promised to keep him safe: Rory and Gale and Posy saying goodbye, and Gale had gripped your arm in a vice and said _please, Prim, take care of him_. It was the only time you ever heard him beg.

That thought alone keeps you moving through the jungle.

You run, fast as you can, shoving vines out of the way, bumping into bushes, tripping over roots. You think you’re going the right way until the ground drops away in front of you and you fall down down down over the edge, rolling head over heels until you finally hit the bottom.

You wrist makes a noise you’ve never heard before and pain radiates out, sharp and cruel, all encompassing. Your first injury, the kind of thing that can make or break a tribute, Haymitch would say.

You lie there in the mud and try to remember how to breathe, and somewhere in the distance, Vick screams. It hurts worse than any broken bone ever could.

-

There’s blood everywhere, soaking the ground; even in the dark if stands out, stark red against bright green. You’ve never seen so much, dripping from the long leaves, pooling in the hollows of Vick’s throat.

You collapse next to him, try to use your knowledge to help: find the origin, stop the bleeding, close the wound. But your hands are shaking and there’s too much blood. You wonder if this is what Katniss felt holding Peeta in those last moments, watching his life slip away.

“It’s okay,” you try to say, but the words are knives in your throat. “I’ve got you, Vick. I’m here.”

His eyes are wide, full of panic and fear; you would do anything to make that look go away. “Do you want to see something?” you ask, and Vick’s head twitches feebly. “Then look up. Look, Vick. Look at that.”

His eyes roll upwards and you can see the moment he sees it, the way his body relaxes into yours. Up above you the sunlight is starting to peek through the trees, painting the sky in oranges and golds.

“That’s it,” you murmur, and your tears are falling on his face like rain. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? All those colours.”

Vick nods, the tiniest shift of his head, and his lips curve into a smile. His face is painted in the colours of the sun. You wonder if they’ll show him like this tonight, when his face is in the sky: he’s glowing, unearthly, like a coal pulled from the fire, burning bright.

His mouth moves, blood bubbling up between his teeth, but you know what word he’s saying: _momma_. Then his body goes slack in your grip, his eyes finally going dark, and the cry that rips from your lungs echoes in the air.

There’s a rumbling, the ground shaking beneath you. Boxes in the Cornucopia tremble and tip; you watch a great tree crack and fall. You wonder if the earth can feel your sorrow, if it’s screaming with you.

The canon echoes. Above you, the sky starts to explode.


End file.
